Run-On

Chapter 8 - The One About The Amygdala

"Did you know that?" She grins. I peer at her over my coffee. I am at her house again. She's here for a while. I am spending every second trying to search for a way to agree that I have found my independence from such a wonderful creature.

"I didn't," I simply reply. She's taking a short course on neuroscience, I guess, I have to infer since she's overrunning me with words and is forgetting that I haven't been a part of her life for a while now.

"And near the front of your brain is the amygdala," she says, a mischievious grin tugging at her cheeks and an almost growl escaping under her words. She is reminding me of an adventurous little girl, the way she's so thrilled about what she's talking about. It confuses me; she's using all kinds of medical jargon that is most definitely not used in everyday life. She forgets that, since she hasn't been a part of the world for a while now.

"It's kind of where the emotions of fear and horror and sadness reside," she mentions, taking a sip of her tea as if she's forgotten that it existed for the past few minutes and decides that it could use some activity. I raise my eyebrows to see her full expression.

"Really now?"

"Yes! And it's kind of a funny thing, really. It is best understood in comparison..." she continues on another rant about yet another section of the brain that will escape mine soon enough. I wonder how she feels, if she feels as unplugged, as run dry as the people she's left behind as she escaped. I wonder what she's done. Who she's talked to. Why she's less than a foot away from me and yet still we are miles and miles apart.

"...and that's something I thought you would find interesting. Feelings actually live in parts of your brain. They lurk around, just waiting for an experience to release them." She grins again. I grin back at her hoping it doesn't look as much like a grimace as it feels. She hasn't asked me once about New York yet. I feel like gnawing at my nails. I feel guilty for feeling as if I had to be freed from her. Maybe I should tell Meredith that I changed my mind; she would understand. I should probably tell her that I'm bringing Meredith. I should do so much. She looks at me expectantly and I feel a twang in my neck.

"Sorry, what?" I ask. I see a strange look flash over her pupils. It's a strange combination of guilt, disappointment, and boredom.

"Were you not paying attention?" She asks.

"No, I was. Amygdala. Medical jargon," I tease, hoping she'll get the joke, but she doesn't. She hasn't in a while. My tone turns back to serious. "I just missed the question, is all."

"I asked if you called Marilyn yet," she asks, her tone is impatient and it ticks me off.

"Yeah, I did," I say, in an equally challenging tone and I am not sure why. "I'm leaving next week."

"Next week? Will you be back before New Years' Eve?" She asks, a pleading note under her words.

"If it doesn't snow too hard, of course," I say, feeling guilty again and I pick up my coffee and kiss her forehead. I want the conversation to end now.

"Are you bringing anyone?" She asks a little more timidly. I cringe, my back to her as I put my mug in the sink. I turn the water on as loud as I can and throw a spoon into the sink as I mumble a quick yes.

"Who?" She asks more intrigued. The questions have begun finally and all I want them to do is stop. I consider yelling.

"Meredith," I say, wishing I hadn't just finished my coffee so I could hide behind a mug. I am looking everywhere but her. I don't see anything.

"Oh," is all that comes out of her mouth. That was anticlimactic. I take a mental breath of relief. That was easy, what was I so afraid of anyway?

"Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want you to go with another girl?" She says, her voice cracking.

Ah, there it is. That mad passion I adore.

"Well, I would've rather gone with another girl besides her," I growl, but I'm not mad. I don't feel much right now.

"It's not my fault that I have school always-"

"No! No it's not. It's not your fault that you have school all the time. It's not your fault that you can't always just leave on a whim. But it is NOT my fault that I can't go with you, and let me tell you what is your fault. It is your fault that you have shut me out and everyone else that could possibly care about you. It is your fault that this is happening right now. And it is your fault that even when you are here, six inches away, you are a million daydreams away. I have lost you. That is my fault. But I would do anything for you to come back." I stop yelling once I realize I'm yelling. She is silent. I am cold. I want to go wrap my arms over her shoulders, I want to storm out the door, I want to do something. I want someone to do something. But no one moves except the frigid winds in our line of vision. I hate this. I hate what we're becoming.

"Go." She mumbles. She's staring a hole in her feet as her fingers nervously tug at her sleeves. I don't know what I want, I want the little girl excitement that was just there seconds ago to come back, I want her to speak her second language she's spent so much time learning. But I also want her to say she's sorry, to sit there and I want her to cry. I want her to know that I am hurt and frozen in time and that she has shoved me into the dark. But I also think I made my point, probably all too clear and now I want to cry and tell her I am sorry and I know she is hurt and stuck in a rut but none of that is happening, her crossed arms are ushering me out the door and my legs are following suit, and as I feel my hands close around the cold doorknob I know I left my heart inside that door and I'm braving the fleeting rain and wind with a scar the shape of her forming in my chest.

It's Christmas Eve. I can't wait for this damned holiday to be over.

I open my own cold doorknob into an echoing living room, full of no one and nothing. I take a near silent step onto the tile, gently pressing the door quietly. Something about the air fills my lungs with staples and my pulse turns to cold sleek lead, slipping through my veins and all I want to do is fall over. I try and think about it from her perspective. Maybe if I were her, I wouldn't want her going off to a big city with some boy that I was already wary of. But I would've gone with her because I would follow her to the end of the world. I don't want to think about what that means to her about me. I shiver. What a cold, destructive world.

I take out my phone and start to text Jonathan, the most likely of my roommates to be understanding. I close the message before I send it. Words just don't carry the same weight anymore. Instead, I look to the person who took my most inspired words and sent the fire back to me. I formulate an email to a Marilyn Gillinsky. I send it. I am leaving for New York tomorrow.